


446. the memory broker

by piggy09



Series: The Sestre Daily Drabble Project [105]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: “We want you to remember,” says Sarah. She looks tired.
Helena considers this. “Why?” she says.





	

The problem, really, is that she doesn’t remember. Or at least that’s what people keep telling her with their big wide eyes and their honest mouths: she doesn’t remember anything, and that’s the problem. A problem. _The_ problem. (She can’t tell the difference between the two.)

“Why is it a problem,” she says to one of the women with the same face. This one’s name is _Sarah_. She’s the one that cries the most. _Cosima_ is the one who talks in tongues she doesn’t understand, _neurons_ and _synaptic connections_ and _damage, damage, damage_. _Alison_ is the one who keeps trying to feed her. It’s good! But it doesn’t help very much. With the forgetting.

_Helena_ is the one who is her. She is Helena. Apparently.

“We want you to remember,” says Sarah back. She looks tired.

Helena considers this. “Why?” she says.

“I am okay. Without remembering.”

Sarah looks upset at this, which is probably understandable. Helena doesn’t blame her. But really: it’s okay. They don’t all need to be so worried about her; she’s alright here, with all these women who care about her. She doesn’t really need to know why.

“You wanted a family,” Sarah says quietly, still upset. “More – more than anything. And now you’ve got it, and you don’t even know that you wanted it.”

“Oh,” says Helena. She looks at her hands. She probably used to be able to do all sorts of things with them. Paint, or play violin, or cook, or something wonderful.

“I know you’re my family, though,” she says. “You told me. When you were telling stories.” Helena likes it when they do – tell stories – because she gets to hear them call her _brave_ and _kind_ and _funny_. She likes her other-self as an idea, a strung-together combination of happy traits. It hurts when she tries to remember these things, but she likes hearing stories about this other Helena. She seems like a person Helena would like to meet.

“Yeah, but—” Sarah starts, but she doesn’t finish. She also looks at her hands.

“Can you tell another one?” Helena says. “About me. Something I remember.”

Sarah looks at her through the mess of her hair before she runs a hand through her hair and her eyes are clear. There is a feeling in them Helena can’t quite identify, doesn’t quite know. “Alright,” she says. “Few months ago we were in Mexico—”

“No,” Helena says. “I know about a few months ago. What about before that? When we were young. When I was a baby. What about before a few months ago.”

Sarah looks upset again. Even more upset than she did before. “You don’t talk about it,” she says. “I don’t know. Sorry.”

Helena stares at her, brow furrowed. “You’re lying,” she says.

Sarah flinches. She doesn’t say _no_.

“Why are you lying?” Helena says, angrier now. “You wanted me to remember, yes? How can I remember if you only tell me one small part of my life? How do I know who I am that way?” Her hands are clenched and she doesn’t remember doing it. It’s not even that she wants them, these memories, she just wants to know that she could have them if she _did_ want them. They’re hers, aren’t they? Aren’t they?

Sarah shakes her head and doesn’t answer. Her hands are picking at each other, fingers all twitching. Helena breathes heavier, and heavier, and there are tears on the edges of her breath, and that’s when Sarah looks back at her. She swallows.

“You grew up in a convent in Ukraine,” she says, voice tired. “The nuns beat you, that’s all I know, you don’t talk about it. ‘xcept you told me they locked you in a broom closet for four months. I know that.”

The words land in the perfect blank space that is Helena’s memory, and the problem – really – is that she doesn’t know if they’re true. Because she doesn’t remember. Sarah could be lying to her. Helena doesn’t feel any more or less angry. She wants those words to hit something in her and make her feel – make her feel – make her _feel_ , yes, that’s what she wants. To feel something. But she doesn’t. The girl locked in a broom closet is just another story, and Helena doesn’t feel anything about it at all.

“That’s sad,” she says with perfect blankness.

“Yeah,” Sarah says. “That’s why we didn’t – we didn’t want to tell you, yeah? We didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt,” Helena says. “She’s hurt, but.” She shrugs. “She’s not me. It’s okay, Sarah.”

Sarah looks even sadder. That isn’t what Helena wanted. That’s what she regrets: that talking about Helena made Sarah sad. She didn’t want to upset anybody.

“Tell me about the road trip again,” she says, like Sarah hasn’t told her about it four times.

Sarah visibly relaxes. “It was your first time,” she says. “We weren’t in the car for twenty bloody minutes before you got the radio and—”

She keeps talking, voice unspooling the story like a sun-faded ribbon. Helena nods at all the right places. She pretends that the story is true.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


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